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“So what if you do?” retorts a churlish male voice.

My head whisks to the side. Another Fae trots in from between two elms, a pair of feisty orange irises popping from his face. His marten tail curves off the ground, fluffy and far too pompous for his juvenile body.

It’s the one who glamoured me in The Wicked Pines. If he were a mortal, I would attribute his epicene beauty to youth. However, he could be several hundred years old.

He greets the centaur with a priggish air and flips a stray curl from his shoulder. “You heard me coming,” he corrects. “That’s no accomplishment.”

“So you were trying to be obvious?” Cypress inquires. “Or was your resounding gait purely an accident?”

“Fuck off.”

“This is my quarter. You and the nymphs were tasked to The Gang of Elks. You will leave and resume the search there.”

“Even if the mortal’s going in that direction, she won’t make it that far, much less that fast.”

Because that isn’t the point, the equine draws out his response. “Then let me speak on your level: I was here first.”

“And I was here second.”

“Flouting his orders will not impress him.”

Sarcastic creases etch across the male’s face. “What would you know about trying to impress Puck?”

Like a sucker punch, the question finds its mark. A muscle ticks in Cypress’s dark cheek. “You were ordered to search—”

“I already said, she won’t make it to elk territory. That’s too far east.”

East. Elks. Good to know.

Cypress’s profile cranes toward the sky, his features scrunched in thought as he contemplates the celestials peeking from behind the canopy. “Do not underestimate her. She might cross more boundaries than we anticipate.”

I lean into the bush, the better to watch the other Fae, whose tail bristles. “I’m merely scouting farther afield. Foxglove and her clan thought it a sound idea.”

Foxglove. She must be the nymph leader who owns the dagger residing in my boot laces.

“Anyway,” the male says, “you’re giving the human too much credit. She won’t get that far because he won’t let that happen.”

The centaur mutters, “When do we ever know what he will do?”

“I have a merry idea,” a voice chimes in. “Why not ask me?”

That tenor sizzles down the side of my body. It’s not the approximation of a shockwave so much as a tingle, its effervescence traveling across my flesh.

Compared with Cypress’s baritone and the other Fae’s braying, this new accent is equal parts audaciousness and lightness. Yet like roots, the inflection penetrates fully, reaching places it shouldn’t be able to reach. Places that urge my knees apart.

My head shifts on reflex, attached to the invisible noose of that insufferable voice. Puck strolls from the creepers. Dozens of vest buckles cling to his broad chest, the longbow and quiver slant across his back, and a breeze rustles the fur of his calves.

Without effort, the satyr fills a void that hadn’t been there moments ago. His arrival cuts through the glaring contest between his kin, snipping that cord in half, though neither appears surprised to see Puck.

He balances a flat palm on a trunk and tsks. “So do I need to separate you two?” His head slants toward the lanky member of their trio. “And what do you have to say for yourself, Tinder?”

The one called Tinder meets Puck’s gaze without preamble. “Nothing.”

Although he was supposed to be combing the wild for me elsewhere, his unapologetic response causes Puck to snort. “They grow up so fast.”

Tinder flexes his tail. “You could have at least assigned me to The Passel of Boars.”

Cypress clips, “He could have assigned you to The Pack of Weasels.”